The Defector

by Daniel Silva

  “That’s because you never wrote a story about me.”

  “If I had, it would have been airtight and completely accurate.”

  “So you say.”

  “I know a great deal about the way you made your money, Viktor. I did you a favor by never publishing that information in the Gazeta. And now you’re going to do one for me. You’re going to help me find the man who kidnapped my friend. And if you don’t, I’m going to pour everything I have in my notebooks into the most unflattering exposé ever written about you.”

  “And I’ll take you to court.”

  “Court? Do you really think I’m afraid of a British court?”

  She reached into her handbag and withdrew a photograph: a man standing in the arrivals hall of Heathrow Airport. Orlov slipped on his spectacles. The eye twitched nervously. He pressed a button on the side table, and the maid materialized.

  “Bring me a bottle of the Pétrus. Now.”

  HE TRIED to slip out of the noose, of course, but Olga was having none of it. She calmly recited a couple of names, a date, and the details of a certain transaction involving a company Viktor once owned—just enough to let him know her threats were not idle. Viktor drank his first glass of Pétrus quickly and poured another.

  Olga had never seen Viktor show fear before, but he was clearly afraid now. An experienced reporter, she recognized the manifestations of that fear in the behavior that came next: the exclamations of disbelief, the attempts at misdirection, the effort to foist blame onto others. Viktor tended to blame all his problems on Russia. So it came as no surprise to Olga when he did so now.

  “You have to remember what it was like in the nineties. We tried to snap our fingers and turn Russia into a normal capitalist country overnight. It wasn’t possible. It was utopian thinking, just like Communism.”

  “I remember, Viktor. I was there, too.”

  “Then you surely recall what it was like for people like me who were able to make a bit of money. Everyone wanted a piece of it. Our lives were in constant danger, along with the lives of our families. There was the mafia, of course, but sometimes our competitors were just as dangerous. Everyone hired private armies to protect themselves and to wage war on their rivals. It was the Wild East.”

  Orlov held the goblet of wine up to the light. Heavy and rich, it glowed like freshly spilled blood.

  “There was no shortage of soldiers. No one wanted to work for the government anymore, not when there was real money to be made in the private sector. Officers were leaving the Russian security services in droves. Some didn’t bother to quit their jobs. They just put in an hour or two at the office and moonlighted.”

  Olga had once written an exposé about this practice—a story about a pair of FSB officers who investigated the Russian mafia by day and killed for them by night. The FSB men had vehemently denied the story. Then they had threatened to kill her.

  “Some of these men weren’t very talented,” Orlov continued. “They could handle simple jobs, street killings and the like. But there were others who were highly trained professionals.” Orlov studied the photograph. “This man fell into the second category.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “It was in Moscow, in another lifetime. I’m not going to discuss the nature or circumstances of this meeting.”

  “I don’t care about the meeting, Viktor. I only want to know about the man in that photograph.”

  He drank some more of the wine and relented. “His KGB code name was Comrade Zhirlov. He specialized in assassinations, abductions, and finding men who wished not to be found. He was also supposed to be very good with poisons and toxins. He put those skills to good use when he went into private practice. He did the kind of jobs others might refuse because they were too dangerous. It made him rich. He worked inside Russia for a few years, then broadened his horizons.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Western Europe. He speaks several languages and has many passports from his days with the KGB.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Who knows? And I doubt even the famous Olga Sukhova will be able to find him. In fact, I highly recommend you forget about trying. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

  “Obviously, he’s still selling his services on the open market.”

  “That is what I’ve heard. I’ve also heard his prices have increased dramatically. Only men like Ivan Kharkov can afford to hire him any longer.”

  “And you, Viktor.”

  “I’ve never engaged in such things.”

  “And no one is making that accusation. But let us suppose one required the services of a man like this. How would one make contact with him? Where would one go?”

  Viktor lapsed into silence. He was a Russian—and like all Russians, he suspected someone was always listening. In this case, he happened to be correct. For a moment, the two men seated in the back of the MI5 surveillance van feared their source was unwilling to take the final step. Then they heard a single word that required no translation.

  Geneva.

  . . .

  THERE WAS a man there, Orlov said. A security consultant to wealthy Russians. A broker. A middleman.

  “I believe his name is Chernov. Yes, I’m sure of it now. Chernov.”

  “Does he have a first name?”

  “It might be Vladimir.”

  “Do you happen to know where he keeps his office?”

  “Just off the rue du Mont-Blanc. I believe I might have the address.”

  “You wouldn’t have a telephone number, would you?”

  “Actually, I might have his mobile.”

  UNDER NORMAL circumstances, Gabriel would never have bothered to write down the name and telephone number. Now, with his wife in Ivan’s hands, he did not trust his usually flawless memory. By the time he had finished jotting down the information, Olga was slipping through Viktor’s wrought-iron gate. A taxi collected her and brought her around the corner to Cheyne Gardens. Gabriel climbed in next to her and headed to London City Airport, where an American-supplied Gulfstream G500 was waiting. The rest of his team was already on board, along with its newest addition, Sarah Bancroft. The tower log would later show the plane departed at 10:18 p.m. For reasons never explained, its destination was not recorded.

  43

  KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

  IT MIGHT not have seemed like much—a name, a business address, a pair of phone numbers—but in the hands of an intelligence service like the Office it was enough to open a man up stem to stern. Shamron gave the information to the bloodhounds of Research and shot it across the Atlantic to Langley as well. Then, with Rami at his side, he headed home to Tiberias.

  It was after midnight when he arrived. He undressed in darkness and crept into bed quietly so as not to wake Gilah. He didn’t bother to close his eyes. Sleep came rarely, and never under circumstances like these. Rather than try, he relived each minute of the past two days and explored the remotest regions of his past. And he wondered when he might be given the chance to do something of value, something other than making a nuisance of himself or taking in a message from London. And he wrestled with two questions: Where was Ivan? And why hadn’t they heard from him?

  Oddly enough, Shamron was focused on that very thought when the telephone at his bedside rang at 4:13 a.m. He knew the exact time because, out of habit, he glanced at his wristwatch before answering. Fearful he was about to be informed of yet another death, he held the receiver to his ear for a moment before grumbling his name. The voice that responded was instantly familiar. It was the voice of an old rival. The voice of an occasional ally. He wanted a word with Shamron in private. He was wondering whether Shamron was free to come to Paris. In fact, said the voice, it would be wise for Shamron to find some way of getting on the nine o’clock flight out of Ben-Gurion. Yes, said the voice, it was urgent. No, it couldn’t wait. Shamron hung up the phone and switched on the bedside lamp. Gilah rose and went to make the coffee.
/>   IVAN HAD chosen his envoy with care. There were few people who had been in the trade longer than Ari Shamron, but Sergei Korovin was one of them. After spending the 1950s in Eastern Europe, the KGB taught him to speak Arabic and sent him off to make mischief in the Middle East. He went first to Baghdad, then Damascus, then Tripoli, and finally Cairo. It was in the tense summer of 1973 that Korovin and Shamron first crossed paths. Operation Wrath of God was in full swing in Europe, the terrorists of Black September were killing Israelis wherever they could be found, and Shamron alone was convinced the Egyptians were preparing for war. He had a spy in Cairo who was telling him so—a spy who was then arrested by the Egyptian secret service. With his execution just hours away, Shamron had reached out to Korovin and asked him to intercede. After weeks of negotiations, Shamron’s spy was allowed to stagger across the Israeli lines in the Sinai. He had been severely beaten and tortured, but he was alive. One month later, as Israel was preparing for Yom Kippur, the Egyptians staged a surprise attack.

  By the mid-1970s, Sergei Korovin was back in Moscow, working his way steadily up the ranks of the KGB. Promoted to general, he was placed in charge of Department 18, which dealt with the Arab world, and was later given command of Directorate R, which handled operational planning and analysis. In 1984 he took control of the entire First Chief Directorate, a position he held until the KGB was disbanded by Boris Yeltsin. If given the chance, Sergei Korovin would have probably killed the Russian president himself. Instead, he burned his most sensitive files and went quietly into retirement. But Shamron knew better than anyone there was really no such thing, especially for Russians. There was a saying within the brotherhood of the sword and the shield: once a KGB officer, always a KGB officer. Only in death was one truly free. And, sometimes, not even then.

  Shamron and Korovin had maintained contact over the years. They had met to swap stories, share information, and do each other the occasional favor. It would have been wrong to describe them as friends, more like kindred spirits. They knew the rules of the game and shared a healthy cynicism for the men they served. Korovin was also one of the few people in the world who could keep pace with Shamron’s tobacco intake. And like Shamron, he had little patience for trivial matters, such as food, fashion, or even money. “It’s a shame Sergei wasn’t born an Israeli,” Shamron once told Gabriel. “I would have enjoyed having him on our side.”

  Shamron knew time could be hard on Russian men. They tended to age in the blink of an eye—young and virile one minute, wrinkled paper the next. But the man who entered the salon of the Hôtel de Crillon shortly after three that afternoon was still the tall, erect figure Shamron had first met many years earlier. Two bodyguards trailed slowly behind him; two others had arrived an hour earlier and were seated not far from Shamron. They were drinking tea; Shamron, mineral water. Rami had delivered the bottle himself after instructing the bartender not to remove the cap and twice requesting clean glasses. Even so, Shamron had yet to touch it. He was wearing his dark suit and silver tie: Shamron the shady businessman who played baccarat well.

  Like Shamron, Sergei Korovin could discuss matters of import in many different languages. Most of their meetings had been conducted in German, and it was German they spoke now. Korovin, after settling himself into a chair, immediately thumbed open his silver cigarette case. Shamron had to remind him smoking was no longer permitted in Paris. Korovin frowned.

  “Do they still let you drink vodka?”

  “If you ask nicely.”

  “I’m like you, Ari. I don’t ask for anything.” He ordered a vodka, then looked at Shamron. “It was reassuring to hear your voice last night. I was afraid you might be dead. It’s the hardest thing about growing old, the death of one’s friends.”

  “I never knew you had any.”

  “Friends? A couple.” He gave a faint smile. “You always played the game well, Ari. You had many admirers at Yasenevo. We studied your operations. We even learned a thing or two.”

  Yasenevo was the old headquarters of the First Chief Directorate, sometimes referred to as Moscow Center. It was now headquarters of the SVR.

  “Where’s my file?” Shamron asked.

  “Locked away where it belongs. For a time, I feared all our dirty laundry would be made public. Thankfully, the new regime put an end to that. Our president understands that he who controls history controls the future. He lauds the achievements of the Soviet Union while minimizing its so-called crimes and abuses.”

  “And you approve?”

  “Of course. Russia has no democratic tradition. To have democracy in Russia would be tantamount to imposing Islamic law in Israel. Do you see my point, Ari?”

  “I believe I do, Sergei.”

  The waiter presented the vodka with great ceremony and withdrew. Korovin drank without hesitation.

  “So, Ari, now that we’re alone—”

  “Are we alone, Sergei?”

  “No one but my security.” He paused. “And you, Ari?”

  Shamron glanced at Rami, who was seated near the entrance of the ornate salon, pretending to read the Herald Tribune.

  “Just one?”

  “Trust me, Sergei, one is all I need.”

  “That’s not what I hear. I’m told a couple of your boys got themselves killed the other night, and the Italians are trying to keep it quiet for you. It won’t work, by the way. My sources tell me the story is going to blow up in your face tomorrow morning in one of the big Italian dailies.”

  “Really? And what’s the story going to say?”

  “That two Office agents were killed during a drive through the Italian countryside.”

  “But nothing about an agent being kidnapped?”

  “No.”

  “And the perpetrators?”

  “There will be speculation it was an Iranian job.” He paused, then said, “But we both know that’s not true.”

  Korovin drank more of his vodka. The topic had been broached. Now both men would have to proceed carefully. Shamron knew that Korovin was in a position to admit little. It didn’t matter. The Russian could say more with a raised eyebrow than most men managed during an hour-long lecture. Shamron made the next move.

  “We’ve always been honest with each other, Sergei.”

  “As honest as two men can be in this business.”

  “So let me be honest with you now. We believe our agent was taken by Ivan Kharkov. We believe it was in retaliation for an operation we ran against him last fall.”

  “I know all about your operation, Ari. The whole world does. But Ivan Kharkov had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of this woman.”

  Shamron ignored everything about Korovin’s response except for a single word: woman. It was all he needed to know. The Russian had just laid his bona fides upon the table. The negotiation could now begin. It would follow a set of carefully prescribed guidelines and be conducted mainly with falsehoods and half-truths. Nothing would be admitted and no demands would ever be stated. It wasn’t necessary. Shamron and Korovin both spoke the language of lies.

  “Are you sure, Sergei? Are you sure Ivan’s hands are clean?”

  “I’ve spoken to representatives of Ivan personally.”

  Another pause, then, “Have you heard anything about the condition of the woman?”

  “Only that she’s alive and being well cared for.”

  “That’s good to know, Sergei. If that could continue, we would be most grateful.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. As you know, Ivan is very upset about his current circumstances.”

  “He has no one to blame but himself.”

  “Ivan doesn’t see it that way. He believes these charges and accusations in the West are all lies and fabrications. He would have never been so foolish as to enter into a deal to supply our missiles to al-Qaeda. In fact, he assures me he’s not even involved in the arms business.”

  “I’ll make sure to pass that along to the Americans.”

  “There’s something else you
should pass along.”

  “Anything, Sergei.”

  “Ivan believes his children were taken from him illegally in France last summer. Ivan wants them back.”

  Shamron shrugged his shoulders, feigning surprise. “I never knew the Americans had them.”

  “We believe this to be the case, despite the official statements to the contrary. Perhaps someone could put in a good word with the Americans on Ivan’s behalf.” Now it was Korovin’s turn to shrug. “I couldn’t say for certain, but I believe it would go a long way toward helping you recover your missing agent.”

  Korovin had just taken another step closer toward offering a quid pro quo. Shamron chose the path of prevarication.

  “We’re not a large service like you, Sergei. We’re a small family. We want our agent back, and we’re willing to do whatever we can. But I have very little sway over the Americans. If they do have the children, it’s unlikely they would agree to hand them over to Ivan, even under circumstances such as these.”

  “You give yourself too little credit, Ari. Go to the Americans. Talk some sense into them. Convince them to put Ivan’s children on a plane. Once they’re in Russia where they belong, I’m certain your agent will turn up.”

  Korovin had laid a contract upon the table. Shamron did due diligence.

  “Safe and sound?”

  “Safe and sound.”

  “There is one other matter, Sergei. We want Grigori Bulganov back as well.”

  “Grigori Bulganov is none of your concern.”

  Shamron conceded the point. “And if I’m able to convince the Americans to surrender the children? How long would we have to make the arrangements?”

  “I couldn’t say for certain, but not terribly long.”

  “I need to know, Sergei.”

  “My response would only be hypothetical in nature.”

  “All right, hypothetically speaking, how long do we have?”